Know Your Place

Chapter One-2

“Prospects? Jeez babe, what a time to say something like that,” she drawled. He shrugged an apology, and looked pleadingly at her for some sort of answer anyway. “Okay, let’s sort this one out right now so you never have to say such a bloody stupid thing ever again, right?”

Justine seemed energised all of a sudden, and as if to emphasise that she was now awake and switched on, she rolled onto her side, swept a few bits of grass off her bare legs, and settled down on her front facing Nick, with her head supported by her bunched fists. “Right.” She was settled now. “Look, it’s because I’m nuts about you. The whole deal: kids and stuff. I think you soft-as-s**t Poms call it ‘love’. But I’ve been waiting for you all this time and at last you’re here. I knew it straight away when we met, and when you find someone that makes you feel that way, any other stuff like prospects go straight out the window.” Justine grinned at the thought of the next few words she was going to say – it was a line from a well-known TV advert, with her own twist at the end.

“It’s because you’re worth it, you muppet! Now pass me the bloody wine, and stop being such a galah.” They both laughed, and the moment quickly passed, but Nick continued to think about it. He had been hoping for something a little deeper, he supposed, but as they laughed and settled down again, he realised it was a better answer and a more important one than he had dared hope for. It was simple and honest, and it needed no further elaboration. As weeks passed it became a magical memory for Nick; the moment that cleared away a multitude of shadows from his mind. From that day on they had just grown closer to each other. Before long, Nick had moved into the sanctuary of Justine’s flat and he was homeless no more. The next step had been to get Nick back into work, although his choices were limited because of his police record. However, the charity had a scheme to get people who were down on their luck trained as shoeshiners. He would start off working for a boss – a Polish guy called Mike – who managed several other shoeshiners, but the idea was that eventually Nick would run his own little business as a franchise. Others in a similar predicament had already done so, and Mr Desborough, who had organised the scheme for the charity, felt that Nick was smarter than most. He had taken a few deep breaths before agreeing to do the training. It was a big moment in his life. But in the year since then he’d had no reason to regret the decision. Sometime in the next few months he hoped to take on the reins of his own franchise, and when that happened he might start taking some better money home to repay Justine’s faith.

For the time being though, Nick and Justine were mostly reliant on her income for their small pleasures, and all this explained why Nick felt slightly embarrassed when Vicky asked him every Monday about his weekend. It was the same answer almost every week, and it didn’t add up to much in comparison with Vicky’s regular shenanigans.

Their chat was just sliding towards another one of those awkward silences when Nick had a customer turn up at his chair. It was a man in a suit, who interrupted the conversation with a curt: “Whenever you’re ready.”

Nick spun round, annoyed that he had not seen the man approach. “Sorry, sir – please sit here.” Vicky wandered off back to her coffee shop with a goodbye wave, leaving Nick thinking with relief that that particular routine was done for another week. He got his head down and got to work on the man’s shoes. Seconds after he had started a lady came and stood by Nick’s customer.

Nick was too busy to look up and see her properly but out of the corner of his eye he could see her shoes – elegant, black, high heels – and the start of a shapely curve of calf. She started talking, putting a London-accented voice to the ankles.

“Anyway, you never let me finish. Your mum says you’ve asked them to come as well.”

“Uh-huh. So what if I did? You didn’t mind them coming last time.”

“It would just be nice if you actually mentioned it to me first though Lee. It is my bloody holiday too. What if I just wanted it to be the two of us for a change?”

“Oh come on! Jesus, don’t make me laugh Kay. Anyway, do we have to talk about it now for God’s sake? I’m sure this bloke doesn’t want to hear you moaning on.”

A tone of mutual irritation had risen throughout the exchange. Hearing a reference to himself, Nick just concentrated on the job and tried to ignore the quarrel. The woman wasn’t going to back down just yet though.

“Well, let’s ask him shall we? What do you think Mister shoeshine man? Would you like it if your other half invited her nosy cow of a mother to come on the only bloody holiday you’re going to get next year?”

Nick was forced to look up for the first time, and was taken aback. The woman was quite something. She was tall and slim, with long dark hair, and she glared down at Nick now with a pair of brown eyes that would stop any man in his tracks. Those eyes smouldered angrily behind the mascara, but Nick couldn’t avoid appreciating her beauty. She was also already sufficiently suntanned to make Nick question momentarily in his own mind why she needed to go on another holiday. She wore a black business suit and held a plastic coffee cup in each hand.

Nick had to turn quickly back down to the man’s shoes so as not to betray his own instant admiration. “I don’t know,” he said. “Don’t bring me into it. I’m just…” He left the sentence unfinished and carried on polishing. He could feel his cheeks flushing with heat.

“See, you’ve embarrassed the geezer now,” the man continued. “Just leave it until later Kay, when you can throw as many f*****g pots and pans at me as you want. You’ll have to wait though cos I’m probably going to have a few beers with Darren after work. Hopefully you’ll have calmed down by then.”

“Stay out all f*****g night as far as I care.” She spat out the sentence with startling venom. Bloody hell, Nick thought, who’d get married? She went on: “I could pour this coffee right over your head you ignorant bastard. That would take the smirk off your self-satisfied little face.” The man seemed about to respond in kind but Nick had heard enough. He shot up from his stool, dropping the brush he was using to the floor with a clatter.

“Okay people. That’s enough of that. Either you both shut up and save this for later or you can get a shoeshine somewhere else. It’s that simple.”

He looked from one to the other. The woman looked like she was about to erupt still, anger flashing in her dark eyes. The man stared silently at the floor. Nick could see in the background that a couple of passing commuters had stopped to watch, no doubt hoping that something interesting was going to happen.

“Christ, you’re like a couple of spoilt kids,” Nick continued, more to fill the silence than anything else. “Well? What’s it to be, people?”

The woman had closed her eyes, and appeared to be counting to ten in her head. Then she opened her eyes again, looked at Nick and said: “You know what mate, you’re right. I’m sorry. I don’t know why I let this arsehole wind me up.”

“You started this in the first place, you moany old cow,” the man in the chair retorted, giving his wife a thunderous glare.

It looked like the woman was about to snap back at him, but Nick held up a hand and with a single, sharp “enough!” cut across her. Two minutes of silence followed while Nick finished the man’s shoes. The onlookers had moved along, disappointed at the anti-climax. Nick fancied that the argument still raged on above his head as he sat at the man’s feet and buffed the leather; it wasn’t spoken out loud but continued with every furious look that passed between the couple, he imagined. It was with relief that he finished the job and took the man’s money. The couple moved on, he without a word or look in acknowledgement to the shoeshiner, she with a small guilty smile, and a mouthed “thank you”, before they headed off towards the Broadgate centre, next to the station.

Nick didn’t watch them go. He was sorting out his money and his equipment. When he next turned around they had gone, and Liverpool Street Station was its usual bustling self. Nick looked up at the main clock above the concourse. It read 8.36. What a way to start the week, he thought. Mind you, what a woman. He sat down with his coffee and picked up the paperback again. Within a minute another customer had settled into the chair, and Nick was swept up in the day’s work once more.

**

Kay Talbot sat back and watched the members of her team, most of them heads bowed to their desks, or intently viewing computer screens, and she reflected that despite everything that advances in communication technology had provided – emails, mobile phone, social networking – life was still much easier when you did things face to face. You could use your physical gifts to the maximum when you were face to face – and Kay Talbot was aware of the advantages that gave her if the person across the table happened to be a man.

Today though, those gifts were being neutralised. The action was happening on the telephone, and as smart, quick and tough as her mind could be, that meant that the playing field was levelled.

Kay had long known that in public relations there were two different kinds of attention. There was the kind of attention that you chased and plotted and schemed for; that you lunched journalists and analysts for, and that you wrote press releases for. This was the good stuff, and it was enjoyable enough, although a woman of Kay’s expertise and political nous could handle it without having to stretch herself overly. The results could be impressive, and could be presented as great wins to your client.

Then there was the other kind, the unwelcome attention. It was usually initiated by a panicked phone call from a client. Such and such a journalist has been phoning and asking about so and so, please get them off our case. This was where, to Kay’s mind, a PR professional earned his or her corn. There were some that specialised in ‘crisis management’. They loved the thrill of the chase, even though it was they who were being harried by snapping journalists, demanding good answers to awkward questions.

This was one of those days, and unusually Kay found that she wasn’t enjoying it. The crisis had begun at the start of the week, with a phone call from the catering firm that she represented as a director of Palmerston PR. The catering firm had won a contract two years earlier to supply meals for some of the UK’s biggest airports. It had been announced in a blaze of glory for the company. There were stories all over the trade press, the managing and marketing directors were kept busy giving interviews about the importance of the contract, and even a couple of national newspapers had picked it up and printed small articles. For the client, a company called Mighty Meals UK, this was the ultimate in press coverage. From top to bottom everyone in the firm was ecstatic. Kay was overjoyed, her team celebrated with an expensive night out in a restaurant, all paid for by the PR company, and more than covered by the increased fees that came with the PR contract extension that followed. The sore head that Kay had suffered the next day however was nothing when compared to what she was wrestling with now.

There had been a police raid at Gatwick airport. They had taken away the catering company’s paperwork, and discovered that several of its staff members were illegal immigrants. Two were from China, but nobody seemed too bothered about that. It was the Somalian and the two Yemenis that were the real problems. This would have been bad enough before the terror attacks of September 11th 2001. Since that infamous day six years earlier, and then the London bombings of July 7th 2005, the issue of illegal immigrants working at airports held a whole new resonance for the British public.